


to me, you are perfect

by fairytiger



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5576703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytiger/pseuds/fairytiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an AU where the Pemberley arc takes place over the holidays, or How Lizzie Falls in Love at Christmas</p>
            </blockquote>





	to me, you are perfect

_sleigh bells in the air/beauty everywhere_

Lizzie would like to say that she spends her first week in San Francisco reveling in her luxury apartment, an office with her name on the door, a city dressed in white lights and fog that it wears like a coat. And when Charlotte asks, that’s exactly what she tells her. Everything is great! I love it here! I don’t want to run screaming back home, what do you mean!

The truth is, she is completely void of any spirit, Christmas or otherwise. She takes the minimalist route to the office, puts in eight hours and eats lunch at her desk. She doesn’t know a single person’s name. 

Except, you know, the obvious.

But in a new town at a new company, it’s nice to know that some things translate no matter where you work. She’s forced into social interaction on Friday because it’s Linda from Project Development’s birthday and there’s cake in the fourth floor conference room. Granted, it’s tres leches cake that looks straight out of Williams Sonoma.

Oh and Gigi Darcy is here. Because she’s everywhere.

“Good friends with Linda?” Lizzie asks through a bite of, honest to God, life-changing cake.

“Oh yeah. She’s helping me put together a project proposal for next summer. Plus, I never say no to anything from Tartine.”

“Is that a person? Or maybe a baking god?”

“Have you not been yet? Wait, _Lizzie_.” She sets down her plate, serious. “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t had their morning buns?”

“That sounds vaguely dirty, and no. I’ve only been here a week.” She cringes at the sound of her defensive tone; it’s not Gigi’s fault that she’s gone off the grid. “It’s just a little overwhelming.” She gestures to the city outside the glass windows, a million moving parts and it all feels so hopeless, the thought of becoming one of them.

“Okay, that settles it. Whatever you’re doing tomorrow, cancel it and come Christmas shopping with me and William.”

Lizzie’s only plan was to finally start “Downton Abbey” and eat a frozen pizza or three. 

“I don’t know. Won’t that be…”

“Fun? Yes it will! I’ll text you where to meet us. Wear your walking shoes!”

So that’s how Lizzie gets out of her apartment and into the cold December air, her three dollar umbrella from CVS in hand. She wears her favorite boots and a smile that might be enough to convince herself, and others, that today will be fine. Maybe even good.

She arrives at the famous Tartine and is greeted by a line out the door, despite the rain. She’s early, her nervous energy getting her ready and out the door with a half hour to spare, so she takes a spot in the back of the line, opens her umbrella, and prays that the cheap vinyl will hold. 

_Today will be fine today will be fine today will be fine_

And like an answer to another prayer, something flaky and fragrant appears in front of her.

“I was instructed to make sure you got one of these.”

“Darcy?” She doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but it is a little, because who is this person in glasses and a leather jacket and a scarf and hair with zero product and 100% humidity?

“You’re...early,” she finishes.

“As are you. Gigi warned you about the crowds?”

“Yes,” she swallows the lie. “Is she here?”

“There was an eyeliner emergency; she’ll be out soon.” He hands her the pastry bag, still hot enough that her fingers dance around the paper. It smells like spice and citrus and she has to actively not-drool.

The sound she makes when she finally takes a bite, however, that’s unavoidable.

Darcy smiles.

“Good?”

“That’s it. I’m moving here. Literally here, to this bakery.”

“You could sleep on a _phyllo_.” Darcy winces as soon as he says it, and Lizzie doesn’t know what she finds more charming.

“You’re here!” Gigi materializes between them, perfect winged eyeliner applied, and a tray of three coffees in hand. “Ready?”

“How did you bypass the line?” 

“We come here a lot.” Gigi grins at her brother and loops an arm through his. “Shall we?”

\--

The day isn’t fine. It’s not even good.

It’s wonderful.

They start in the Haight, where Lizzie scores a vintage fit-and-flare for Jane at a consignment shop, and Darcy picks up Lego cufflinks for Fitz. There’s a funky bookstore where Darcy helps her find an early edition of “This Side of Paradise” for her dad, and he and Gigi go in on a leather-bound collection of the Brontës for their aunt. 

They sightsee along the way, each new neighborhood punctuated by food that she just has to try, like chocolate--not Ghiradelli, Darcy is emphatic about this--and ice cream and burritos.

Oh, the burritos.

“Thank god we’re walking,” Lizzie says through a mouthful of carne asada. 

“Right?” Gigi agrees. “We’re not usually this ambitious with our dining in one day.”

“Though I don’t know why,” Darcy says, guacamole stuck to the corner of his lip that Lizzie absolutely does not stare at. “Absurd quantity aside, I think we take for granted living in a place with so much to offer.”

“Uh oh, here comes the pitch,” Gigi teases, nudging his shoulder. 

“What pitch?”

“William wants to steal you after you graduate.”

Lizzie picks an unfortunate time to take a sip of her water.

“ _Gigi_.” His voice is strained and tight.

“What? You were just saying the other day how well she’d do here--”

“We need more napkins,” he announces. “Perhaps you could go get more. And take your time.”

She rolls her eyes, but has the decency to look a little sheepish as she sulks away to the counter.

“The company,” he clarifies, turning back to Lizzie. “I was saying that you’d do well at the company.”

“Oh, well...thank you?” she laughs, nervous. “Though I don’t know that I’ve been here long enough for you to have an accurate assessment.”

“I could speak to all the reasons why I’m confident that I do, but that would embarrass us both.” He’s smiling, his ire at Gigi and the blush in his cheeks subsided. 

“Truth time? I really dreaded coming here. Aside from...everything that happened this year, I’ve never been on my own like this. I didn’t think I could do it.”

“And now?”

Lizzie knows that not everything changes in a day, that it takes more than a week to build a home and a life and a future she can see herself in. But it took less than an afternoon to find her new favorite coffee place, a better route to the office that includes actual scenery and friends to help her do it, and that isn’t nothing.

“Now I think I can. And if I’m going to do it, I’m glad it’s here.”

Darcy regards her for a moment with a single nod.

“So am I.”

\--

The rest of the day passes in a rainy blur as they rush from one shop to the next. The gods ignore Lizzie’s earlier pleas when the runner of her umbrella catches on the fabric, rendering it useless. Darcy and Gigi, sharing one that’s just large enough for two, huddle closer together, leaving barely enough room for her shoulder to press squarely against his, her hand resting just above his own on the wooden handle. 

They part ways that evening, with one last stop at City Hall, lit up in red and green.

“It’s official,” Lizzie says, her breath coming out in wispy halos. “You guys cured me of my humbug.”

“A round of hot chocolate for the road?” Gigi tries to stifle a yawn, but it quickly spreads.

“I think I’m going to go home and break in my fancy new fireplace. Next time, though.”

“Should I call the car?” Darcy asks.

“You guys go ahead. I’m just a couple stops away.”

“Take this at least,” he says, releasing his hold on the umbrella. 

“Thank you, both of you. Today was...awesome.”

“We’re so glad you came. Aren’t we, William?”

“Please stop elbowing me. And yes, we’re very glad you came--out shopping, and to San Francisco.”

“Me too.”

And she really means it.

xxx

_for dancing soon becomes romancing/when you hold a girl in your arms_

If the past year were a graph, the x axis being months and the y axis being emotional turmoil, you could plot mountains by the parties Lizzie’s attended.

The Gibson wedding. Bing’s birthday. Bing’s _other_ party. All unpleasant, all causing sharp spikes on what is usually the flat-line of her quiet life.

So when the invitation to the Pemberley Digital holiday party is delivered by hand by the mailroom guy (unironically dressed in suspenders and a bowtie, she might add, because apparently that’s the unofficial uniform around here), her anxiety is justified. Don’t let the gold leaf lettering and letterpressed stamps of holly fool you; history dictates that this is an invitation to an eggnog-infused disaster.

“Stop fidgeting,” Fitz says through his teeth, grabbing at two champagne flutes gliding by on a passed tray. “She sees all.”

She being Catherine De Burgh, perched on high at a podium atop the hotel’s marble staircase, thanking everyone for their _generous_ contributions and Pemberley Digital’s _excellent_ team for all their _hard_ work this year. 

“Why is she even here?” Lizzie grits back. “I’m anxious enough as it is.”

“Keeping up appearances, playing the family card. Though, pray tell L.B., what has you so anxious this evening?”

Lizzie takes her time on a large gulp of champagne before she answers. 

“The dress code, for starters. I feel like a centerpiece.” She smooths down a non-existent wrinkle from her burgundy velvet dress with a plunge neckline that she was steamrolled into by one Gigi Darcy (“that color??? with your hair???” she’d flailed her hands and charged it as a work expense and that was the end of that). 

“You, my friend, look like an old Hollywood movie.” Fitz clinks his glass with hers and leans down conspiratorily. “And whatever you’re definitely ‘not anxious’ about isn’t going to make it through his speech when he sees you.”

Lizzie starts to protest but then he’s being introduced--”my nephew and CEO of this _fine_ company”--and there’s clapping and he enters from an alcove and--

Oh. Dear God.

He looks... _dapper_ , like the whole night should be set in black and white. Like if you combined Bruce Wayne with James Bond, they’d still come up short.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. The Pemberley Digital Holiday Party has come quite a long way from the company’s inception fifteen years ago. Back then it was hosted in our home with a staff totaling twenty, and my sister and I would hide under the stairs, stealing the sugar cookies when our parents weren’t looking.”

There’s laughter, and he pauses with a smile.

“Our staff has since grown tenfold, with the kind of innovative minds that took a small production company and turned it into a leading multimedia enterprise. I count myself lucky and grateful--” his eyes sweep over the room and land on Lizzie’s. He lingers only for a moment and clears his throat. “--to be in your company. Enjoy yourselves, and happy holidays.”

Applause erupts and he begins to leave when Gigi tugs on his arms and whispers something in his ear. His brow furrows and he whispers something back. Not so subtly, she elbows him in the ribs and jerks her head towards the crowd. 

“Forgive me,” he begins again. “My sister has just informed me that in a few moments, we’ll be bringing back an old tradition: a Christmas waltz. Apparently.” He tucks his chin into his neck and stares after Gig, who flawlessly runs in her heels down the staircase in their direction.

“Fitz! Dance with me!” she tugs at his hand.

“Is that any way to ask a gentleman? What if my card is already full?” 

“I called permanent dibs on your dances years ago.”

“Fine, but I need a refill first.” He waggles his now empty champagne glass, winking at Lizzie as they make their way to the bar.

“Excuse me, Lizzie.”

She whips around and finds herself nearly chin to chest with satin lapels.

“May I--that is, would you like to…” Darcy gestures to the dance floor, a blush rising to his cheeks.

“Oh, well...I don’t know how.” 

“History would suggest that you do.” He raises an eyebrow in a clear challenge. “But I understand, of course, if you’d prefer not to. I’m afraid my participation is mandatory, and it appears Gigi is spoken for.”

Somewhere, Lizzie can feel the almighty Lady Catherine’s eyes lasered in on them and her instinct is to run far and fast and leave a shoe behind, that’s how little she feels like she belongs here. 

But the idea of him dancing with someone else feels like the ending to a different movie, and she wants to see how this one ends.

“Third time’s the charm, right?” Lizzie asks with a smile, picking up her train.

“So I hear.”

The orchestra swells as he leads her to the dance floor, his hand whispering against the small of her back. It moves to her hip as she places one hand on his shoulder, the other tentatively in his own. They fumble at first, missteps punctuated with nervous laughter.

“I’m a little embarrassed to ask,” he begins. “But my speech...how was it?”

“Wonderful” Lizzie blurts before she can stop herself, and she knows she’s turning a shade close to the color of her dress. “I mean, bringing the past to the present the way you did. As good as I’m sure the sugar cookies were, this is all pretty amazing.”

“Oh, the sugar cookies are still here,” he smiles. “But ‘amazing’ is high praise coming from you.”

“You imply I’m a tough critic. Wherever would you get that idea?”

He twirls her, effortlessly, and when she spins back, they’re so close that she can see the faint houndstooth pattern of his tie, the spot he missed on his chin when he shaved.

“Just a guess.”

There’s a distinct giggle on the other side of the dance floor, and Lizzie turns to find Gigi and Fitz pointedly not looking in their direction.

“As long as we’re asking embarrassing questions...did your sister make up a tradition to get us to dance?”

“Technically, no. There was always a waltz, even in our living room. Her timing for bringing it back, however.”

“She’s so nice, I can’t even be mad at her. Are all the Darcys so calculating?”

“In business, perhaps. I like to think when it comes to personal matters, my efforts are a bit more subtle.”

“History would suggest that they aren’t.”

A boat could pass through the stretch of silence that follows and Lizzie, awkwardly taking the lead, sets herself into another spin just so she doesn’t have to face him. But when he pulls her back in, there’s a trace of a smile, even if he can’t fully meet her eyes.

“Touché.”

And just like that, the song ends with a flourish of violins. There’s clapping--somehow her hands move of their own accord--and the DJ turns on something tech-y with thumping bass that echoes her heartbeat. 

“Well, that was fun!” Fitz declares, sidling over with an arm slung over Gigi’s shoulders. “Can I request the foxtrot for next year? Maybe the bunnyhop?”

“We’d have to charge admission for the sight of that,” Darcy smirks. “Gigi, we should make the rounds.”

“Blah, boring. Lizzie, don’t leave before we get to the photobooth, okay?”

“Definitely. Those elf ears are all mine.”

They disperse into the crowd, Darcy offering one last smile before he squares his shoulders and becomes all handshakes and “thank you for coming”s.

“Still anxious?” Fitz asks, nudging her elbow.

“Nope.” She pops the “p” and takes his arm. “Come on; how mad will he be if we start a conga line?”

“Dude, _so_ mad.” 

xxx

_i feel it in my fingers/i feel it in my toes_

**group text: L.B., Gigi D., Darcy, Brandon ❤**

 **Fitz** : _renting movies for tonight. put in your requests now so we don’t have the “White Christmas” meltdown of 2010._

 **Gigi D.** : _it was my FAVORITE. anyway, white christmas._

 **L.B.** : _I’m not picky. Though if the Whos down in Whoville happen to make an appearance, I won’t say no._

 **Brandon ❤** : _Die Hard; no need to rent, I know we already have it on Blu-Ray. And yes, Darcy, IT COUNTS._

 **Darcy** : _We will agree to disagree, per Christmas tradition. “It’s a Wonderful Life”, please._

 **L.B.** : _Sap._

 **Darcy** : _Sentimental._

 **L.B.** : _Is there a difference? :)_

 **Gigi D.** : ;)

 **Fitz** : _the bar is stocked and we’ll have snacks, but bring anything you’d like to add to the festivities. see you crazy party people tonight!_

She hadn’t really thought it through when the idea struck her; she’d called her mom and scribbled down a quick recipe, dragged four bags of groceries a mile uphill, and spent most of the day navigating a kitchen that she’d barely touched since she arrived.

And now, on an interminable elevator ride to Fitz and Brandon’s apartment, clutching the Pyrex, she’s kicking herself for not just buying a bottle of wine at Trader Joe’s based solely on the label like she usually does.

Gigi opens the door not two seconds after she knocks, a martini glass in her hand.

“You made it! Ooo, what’d you bring?”

“Umm, it’s...nothing.”

“Smells good, whatever it is. Come in! Brandon just pulled out the tapas.”

Oh geez.

She’s greeted with a chorus of hellos, Darcy and Fitz embattled over a game of pool, a lone 8 ball remaining. He’s crouched for a shot, though his eyes drift over the ball in her direction.

“Hello, Lizzie.”

“Hi. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Not at all. Dragging out Fitz’s loss is part of the fun.”

“Quit stalling, man. We have six hours worth of holiday joy to get through.”

Darcy follows through with a clean crack, sending the ball into the corner pocket.

“Damn. Why do we even invite you?” Fitz hands over a $100 like it’s nothing, like that’s a thing people do.

“Because I’m a joy to have around.” 

Lizzie does her best to hide how mildly horrified she is by this exchange, but when Fitz goes to the kitchen, Darcy tucks the bill into a ceramic pig on the bookshelf labeled “Dishwasher Fund”.

“Can I help you with that?” he gestures to the dish she’s somehow still holding, and she clutches it tighter.

“That’s okay. It just needs to be reheated.”

“And the secret ingredient is…” Brandon peels off the foil with a flourish. “Cheese?”

“Lasagna. It’s sort of a thing in my family around the holidays and you said to bring something festive, so I went with it but now I’m thinking I should have brought a fruitcake or something.”

“Pfft, I’ve yet to meet a single person who actually eats fruitcake. This looks amazing! Babe, crank the oven to 300.”

Lizzie smiles, the tension in her shoulders that she’d carried with her up the hill and down again easing away.

“Hold on, before you do that.” She pulls the real secret ingredient from her purse. “Anyone have a problem with spicy?”

Brandon grins, a quick peck to her cheek as he takes the bottle of Frank’s Red Hot. “Oh, you we’re going to keep.”

\--

After John McClane saves the day and before it’s George Bailey’s turn to do the same, they take a break for refills and popcorn. Lizzie adds more marshmallows to her hot chocolate (and takes the implied suggestion of the Peppermint Schnapps bottle next to the crock pot) when she spots Darcy at the sink, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a chef’s apron loosely tied around his waist.

She grabs a hand towel from the oven door and silently takes a place next to him, grabbing at a newly rinsed plate.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

“Though I’m still a little offended.”

“What’d I do?”

“I shared a roof for over a month with a gourmet chef and never knew.”

She swats his arm with the towel.

“That’s because there were literal, _actual_ gourmet chefs in residence. And really, it was just lasagna.”

“It was delicious. The heat in particular...the sauce, I mean.” The late night has added gravel to his voice and Lizzie tugs at her sweater. 

Heat, indeed.

“It’s my mom’s recipe. I’m sure somewhere Italian grandmothers are spitting on the Bennet name for it, but we’re always too full and happy to care. Plates?”

“Behind you.” He reaches around her to open the cabinet door, his chest just barely brushing her shoulder as he does, and she’s enveloped by the smell of mint and newspaper ink; an incredibly inconvenient detail that she didn’t need to know. She may never buy gum or magazines again.

When they settle in for the last movie, he stretches out on the long part of the sectional, his argyle socks crossed at the ankles, one arm behind his head. And if Lizzie sits a little closer than she did before, it’s for a better view of the TV, not the cocktail of scents that’s making her lightheaded or the peek of bicep from the sleeves of his black button-down. 

She forces herself to pay attention to the movie, until she doesn’t have to force it at all, and when the Building and Loan is still in business with two dollars left to its name, she lets out an audible, relieved sigh.

“Sap,” says a low voice next to her.

She elbows him with her pillow.

“Sentimental.”

 

xxx

_and there’s a hand my trusty friend/and give me a hand o’ thine_

With the end of the year comes the end of her Pemberley shadow, and Lizzie feels like she needs to mark the occasion with more than just farewell cupcakes in the break room. 

“Is it bad etiquette to throw a party in a house that’s not yours?” she asks Charlotte over their standing Monday FaceTime date.

“Given that your idea of a party is Bagel Bites and board games, I don’t think it’s going to turn into a rager.”

“Are you sure you can’t come? No one else gets my Taboo clues like you.”

“Sneaking out early for Thanksgiving means being chained to my desk for the holidays. Besides, the more people there, the more awkward it’ll be when you two make out at midnight.”

“There are so many things wrong with what you just said.”

“Come on, Lizzie; isn’t the timing a little convenient? Planning a party around a holiday with mandated kissing just when your googly eyes are getting even googlier?”

“First of all, you made that word up. Second of all, if I really wanted to seduce him, you think my best game is microwave pizza bagels?”

“I think you could serve wet sandwiches and he’d still kiss you blind if you asked.”

Good old Charlotte; what she lacks in delicacy, she makes up for in very specific imagery.

She feels a little silly even asking, convinced that they must have glitzy plans so glamorous that not even the deluxe edition of Scrabble can compete. And while Fitz and Brandon are on vacation, Gigi and Darcy RSVP with party emojis and an offer to bring wine, respectively. It’ll be small and intimate in a way that’s comforting, familiar, and definitely not “googly”. 

But the morning of, she wakes up shivering, her hair plastered to her neck with sweat. The room swims when she opens her eyes and there’s that awful, distinct taste of “sick” in her mouth. Determined, she trudges to the shower, blasts the water to hot and sits in the tub, letting the stream pound her back until it turns cold again. She’s clean, but not remotely close to well, and sad and defeated, she shoots a quick apology to the group text and crawls back into bed.

When she wakes up hours, maybe years later, it’s to a low knock on the door. 

She groans, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders to keep the shivering at bay. Unless she happened to order NyQuil in her sleep, there’s not a single person on earth she wants to see when she’s in day old pajamas and skin so pale she might as well be translucent.

Especially the person she sees through the peep-hole.

“ _No_ ,” she says when she finally opens the door, which is not exactly the greeting he was expecting.

Darcy takes in her disheveled state.

“Have I missed something?”

“I sent a text,” she croaks, pulling her phone from the pocket of her sweatpants. “Wait...I only sent it to Gigi? _Fuck_.” She holds a clammy hand to her mouth. “Sorry, I’m just--”

“You’re sick. You were asleep, I’m--I apologize. I didn’t know.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I’m...cold.” This doesn’t feel like the right explanation, but that doesn’t make it any less true. “I mean, I’m sorry. You could have made other plans.”

“Those plans would have included nothing more than work. Here,” he turns her gently by the shoulders. “Go back to sleep. Where’s the, um--”

“Bed’s too far away,” Lizzie mumbles, shuffling to the couch and face-planting directly into the cushions. She’ll worry about being mortified later; that’s future Lizzie’s problem.

She can feel the blanket being adjusted to cover her feet, the pad of footsteps walking toward the bedroom and back. Something heavy and quilted drapes across her; the comforter. 

“Can you lift your head?”

“Mmmph,” she does as she’s told, and she sinks back down into a pillow. “Thank you.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Do Tic-Tacs count?”

There’s a sound that almost counts as a laugh. A minute later:

“Hello, how many types of soup do you have? Excellent, I’d like a bowl of each.”

It’s the last thing she hears before she drifts off again.

\--

She smells curry. 

She cracks an eye open and sees three bowls lined in a row on the coffee table, wisps of steam circling the red, green and yellow liquid inside. If she wasn’t already drooling (lovely), she’d start now.

There’s a glass of water and two Tylenol to the side, and despite the aches that still linger in her muscles, she smiles. He left her a mini pharmacy.

“Oh good,” comes a relieved voice. She sits up to find him in the leather armchair, book in hand, though it’s not what’s currently holding his attention. “I didn’t want to wake you, but you should get a little something down.”

“You stayed?”

He looks down, closing the book.

“I did. I was going to let you be, but I thought…”

“No, you thought right. Thank you,” she says, with all the gratitude she can muster. 

Darcy smiles are, in her experience, rare sightings; like red pandas or parking in LA. But it occurs to her that in the time she’s been here, she’s lost count of them. She might start with the one he gives her now.

“God, that smells good.”

“I was confident that you were a fan of Thai, but didn’t know your curry preference. I hedged my bets.”

“My preference is any and all.” She drinks straight from the bowl, manners be damned--a spoon would just slow her down--and it goes down warm and soothing. “I hope you ordered something for yourself.”

“There happens to be an order of drunken noodles in the kitchen.” He returns with two containers and she moves over on the couch in silent invitation.

“Fried wontons,” he gestures with the styrofoam container as he takes a seat beside her. “If you’re feeling up to it.”

She slices through the tape with her fingernail and pops an entire triangle into her mouth.

“I’m sick, not an amateur.”

“My mistake.”

\--

He makes no more offers to leave.

She doesn’t ask.

Instead she finds a deck of cards and they make their way through speed, war, and gin rummy. She tells him about how Lydia still cheats at “go fish” and the time a game of Uno brought Jane to tears.

“She didn’t talk to me for three days. Three days!”

“Then she should never play with Gigi. For someone so small, she is ruthless.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

A moment passes, and Lizzie blames it on her flu-addled brain, the picture that forms of an alternate universe where there’s another New Years just like this one, except she’s not sick, and everyone is together because it’s easy to share the holidays when your families are one in the same. 

“You alright?” he asks. The mental picture pops, and Lizzie nods.

“I’m thirsty. Want some tea?”

“Let me,” he starts, but she holds out a hand to stop him.

“I got it. I haven’t moved in...oh my god, it’s 11:40 already?”

He nods, checking his pocketwatch to confirm.

“Looks like you’ll see midnight after all. Maybe even…” he goes to the bay windows and pulls back a curtain. “It's a bit foggy, but you might catch the fireworks.”

“Just me?” Lizzie asks, filling the kettle. “You’re going to bail now?”

“I just meant--I didn’t want to assume--”

“You gave up your New Year’s Eve to bring me soup and play cards; you should stay to see 2013.”

The low lamplight doesn’t hide the red in his cheeks.

“Technically, a very nice delivery man brought you soup.”

“Then get out and give me his number.”

They don't have noisemakers or party hats, no Ryan Seacrest or his rockin’ eve; just a countdown to the tick of Darcy’s watch that ends with bursts of color in the sky. Their reflections light up in the window, all blues and greens, fiery reds and sunny yellows. It’s been a good year; a weird, challenging, aggravating, exciting year. Never did she think it’d be ending like this, in this place, especially with this person. 

But nothing’s ending, really. It’s a new year, and it’s just starting.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she reaches over and squeezes his hand.

“Happy New Year.”

There’s only a moment before he squeezes back.

“Happy New Year, Lizzie.”

**Author's Note:**

> this would be nothing--NOTHING--without auraispurple's expert guidance on all things San Francisco. thank you, friend <3


End file.
